


Want

by TakeTheShot



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Angst, BAMF Clint Barton, BAMF Phil Coulson, Bowtie, Clint's past, First Kiss, Get Together, Hurt feelings, I felt bad for always vanishing Laura Barton, I messed about with dates a bit, Idiots Pining, Kisses at inappropriate times, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Phil's feelings, Pre-Avengers (2012), Ridiculous game of Relationship Bingo, SHIELD Husbands, Secrets, So I fixed her instead, Sort-of Ultron fixit, Wee bit of smut, surprisingly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-05
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-04-18 21:27:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14222136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TakeTheShot/pseuds/TakeTheShot
Summary: Agent Phil Coulson doesn't want much. Except when he does.But what he wants is way out of his reach. Except when it isn't.Nothing can possibly go wrong. Except, of course, it can.Phil finally admits how he feels about Clint, it's awesome when Clint feels the same. But Clint has secrets Phil is not prepared for. How can two pining idiots figure themselves out?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, I felt bad for always vanishing Laura Barton, she seems a decent woman despite her iceberg-like capabilities when it comes to sinking our beloved ship. So I fixed her instead. It caused Phil a bit of pain in the process, but don't good things come to those who angst?
> 
> There will be four chapters, I plan to update every day or so.
> 
> (The tiny bit of Russian translates as 'to fuck-dig' which is apparently the equivalent of a surprised 'Jesus Christ!' in English...at least I hope it does.)
> 
> Enjoy!

Agent Phil Coulson doesn’t want much. 

If you ask the SHIELD trainees in his care, depending on how their combat session went that day they’ll tell you that he wants a medal, his own badass documentary on the Discovery channel or, occasionally, a good kick in the teeth. His fellow senior agents will say that he wants taking down a peg, or to get laid, or even a sainthood, according to how their paperwork has been stamped and how many times he’s stood between them and a bullet that week. Director Fury, who knows Coulson pretty well, will tell you that what he really wants is the mint-condition Bucky Barnes card that would complete his fourth edition ‘Howling Commandos In Action’ collector’s set (Fury is in fact hoarding it against the day when he needs a really big favour). Phil himself will tell you that all he really wants is a stiff whiskey and a bit of peace and quiet.

But.

The truth isn’t actually that simple. Phil Coulson does want something. Very much. Too much. He just doesn’t allow himself to want it, or admit to wanting it, because the risk of that wanting is just too great. It could ruin everything. It could break him in half and reduce everything he’s built for himself to dust. Because what he really wants, more than vintage tie-pin cameras, more than sensible and timely mission reports from the rest of the agency, more than that celluloid reel containing genuine behind-the-scenes footage of Captain America’s promotional tour and even more than his Lola (and considering she can fly, that’s a majorly big deal), is Agent Barton. 

Phil’s known him for years, works with him almost every day in the field, the gym or the office and, god, he wants everything about him. His skills, his humour, his strength, his dedication…everything from his sass to his ass. He wants Clint Barton so badly he can taste it, feels it roiling like a slow, constant boil under his skin. It’s alarming and thrilling, seductive and far, far too dangerous. Because what would young, brilliant and gorgeous Agent Barton want with him, an unremarkable suit, 7 years his senior? Agent Phil Coulson doesn’t want much but what he does want is way, way out of his reach and he knows it. So he admits it to nobody, not even himself if he can help it, and he tries to forget. Packs the desire down and tight until he can swallow it and keep on living. He’s nothing but a powder keg in a suit, an explosion waiting to happen.

The problem with explosions of course is that they don’t, no… they won’t wait forever. Especially when the smouldering fuse has the name Clint Barton.

>>====>

It’s a tricky mission, one building but two major targets and waaay too many trigger-happy henchmen, each one only too willing to pop a hole in any of SHIELD’s finest. Phil’s lost track of his mission partner somewhere in the initial fire-fight, which had been brutal and sustained and only stopped when Barton, disobeying all orders and breaking cover, appeared from nowhere and stood front and centre to a veritable hurricane of bullets to drop perfect shot after perfect shot, precisely taking out Beckett, big bad guy number one, and the majority of his escort. The remaining guards had scattered and Phil had followed on auto-pilot, moving without thinking, his brain repeating just one phrase over and over and over as he fires and fires and takes out each threat in turn. How dare you, he silently screams as each man drops, _how fucking dare you?_

Eventually, and only when there’s no one left to shoot, Phil holes up alone in a side-room and takes a second to calm his pounding heart which seems to echo along the silent corridor like a call to arms. He breathes deep and slow, his hands are shaking and he balls them into fists, telling himself to get a goddamn grip.

The sound of footsteps outside puts him immediately back on alert and he braces himself, peers around the doorframe ready for an attack, but, low and behold, it’s Barton himself, practically sauntering down the corridor, bow in hand. Phil’s heart jerks painfully again and he hisses,

“Barton, get yourself in here, right now!”

He comes, grinning, but falters when he sees Phil’s furious stare.

“What?”

Phil blazes, “You broke cover Barton! I expressly told you to stay put and wait for Clarke to be in shot, not to go putting yourself in range of Beckett and his men! You could have gotten yourself killed!”

Clint’s grin returns, sheepishly. “Yeah, but I took out a target didn’t I? That’s half our ticket home. Plus you were under pretty heavy fire, what was I meant to do, just stay sitting on the roof and leave you to it?”

“You’re not hearing me. You deliberately disobeyed my order. Agent.” 

Phil almost snarls, pulling rank in a way he never usually does, never usually has to do, but the terror he felt seeing Clint face that maelstrom, he can’t bear it. He’s finally reached the end of his tether, the fuse is well and truly lit. Clint stiffens and draws himself up tight, defensive.

“Sir, I don’t see why that’s a big deal in this case. I got the job done.” 

“It’s a big deal because you almost died!” 

A wry smile.

“And if I had, Sir, who would care?”

He says it flippantly, but Phil knows him well enough to hear the abyss underneath the question. His heart bleeds for Clint even as his resolve cracks and the forbidden word finally tears itself free. 

“Me!” 

Clint actually sighs, folds his arms crossly. 

“I know, I know, I’m one of SHIELD’s best assets, it would cost a fortune to train someone else to my level, blah, blah, blah, I’ve heard the lecture before Coulson and I’ll remind you that when SHIELD recruited me I’d done all my own training and it didn’t cost the agency one red cent, so I think sometimes I’d be entitled to use it however I think…” he trails off awkwardly. “For fuck’s sake Coulson, why are you looking at me like that?”

If Phil’s hands had been shaking before, they’re positively quaking now, but it would take a bullet to stop him taking that final step towards Clint.

“Because I didn’t say SHIELD would care. I said I would, goddammit. I would.”

For one frozen moment the world is suspended in absolute silence and then the keg explodes. Phil fists his hands roughly into the webbing of Clint’s tac vest and jerks him down to crush their mouths together, all his longing and ferocity and terror pushed into one hard kiss, thrown out like a lifeline. Far away at the back of his mind his some rational voice is going crazy; he’s kissing Barton! He’s _kissing Barton…_ This will ruin everything! What in hell is he doing? 

There’s the tiniest shocked pause but before Phil can pull back and apologise Clint honest to god _moans_ against him, opens his own lips and suddenly they’re _kissing each other_. It’s not pretty, it’s vicious, desperate, oh so very hot and so much more than he ever dared to imagine. Kissing Clint is like drinking fire and being glad of the burn, like throwing himself off a cliff and finding that he’s not falling, but flying. It’s messy, fumbling, frantic and could not be more perfect. It’s everything he’s ever wanted.

Seconds, minutes, hours later, Phil honestly has no idea, they have to break apart and breathe. Phil’s hands are still clenched in Clint’s vest, Clint grips Phil’s waist with one hand, then brings the other up to cup the back of his skull and presses their foreheads together. They stand, panting, just staring. Phil can’t help it, the fact that he hasn’t ended up on the floor with a broken jaw and an arrow through his heart, never mind that Barton actually joined in, has made him utterly and very un-Coulsonly giddy. He smiles and Clint gasps a short, light laugh.

“Jesus, Coulson, you know how to surprise a guy. I didn’t even know you were…”

“Gay?”

Another laugh. “I was going to go with ‘interested in me’, but yeah, that too.”

“I’m not, I’m bi. But I am. Interested in you. Very.”

“Yeah, I can tell that.” Clint smirks, rolls his hips minutely to graze against the tell-tale bulge in Phil’s trousers. Phil flushes but quirks one eyebrow defiantly.

“Well, if you’re telling me that it’s one sided…” 

He makes to step back but Clint’s hands tighten and stop him.

“I did not say that. I did not say that at all.”

Their second kiss is slower, more careful but no less needy. Phil licks his way along Clint’s bottom lip then sucks it into his mouth and nibbles gently, the scrabbled convulsion of Clint’s hands against his spine tells him that he’s very much hit a target. There’s no time to be smug however, he’s almost undone by the way his knees buckle without his permission when Clint pulls away from his mouth to kiss along his jaw and flick his tongue slyly against his earlobe.

“Oh...dear god in heaven… _Barton._ ”

“I think, under the circumstances Sir, Clint will do.”

They’d stay there forever, honestly they would, but the comms, so mercifully silent until now, suddenly crackle back into life.

“Clint? Coulson? Are you there?”

It’s Romanov and she sounds pissed. Coulson’s workplace exterior snaps back into place.

“Copy Romanov, what’s the situation?”

“I have Clarke on the move, he’s going to be passing the east wing in the next minute, trackers have you down as there, am I right?”

“You’re right.”

“Thank goodness, I thought you’d gone AWOL. He’s in his car, but I’ve managed to put a dent in the armour plating. Clint, you’ll have one shot to get through it and put him down. I’ll make sure he doesn’t double back.”

“Roger that Nat, I’m on it.”

Clint is back in business mode, making his way toward the window, pulling arrows from the quiver on his back and lining them up. He picks a particularly wicked-looking bodkin point, one of the special ones with the interesting additions. 

“This is not going to be the easiest shot Coulson,” he mutters, “and damn if you’ve not made me a more than a touch unsteady.”

The devil must be on Phil’s shoulder, or at least his larynx, because he’s spoken before he can think.

“It’s a good job you’ve already got your tripod set up then.”

The incredulous look on Clint’s face as he snaps wide eyes back to Phil is worth a million dollars and a walkie-talkie watch any day.

“Did you just make a dick joke? Here? Now?” he shakes his head as he turns back to the window, but he’s laughing. “Coulson, you’re a dark horse!”

“Says the master assassin.”

Down on the street an imposing black car, standard villain issue, careers round the block, the silver scar of damage across its back panels glinting in the sunlight. The Black Widow certainly has been busy. Clint nocks his arrow, closes one eye, draws, sights.

“Nah, I’m pretty much WYSIWYG.”

He breathes out, lets go and Phil watches the arrow leave the bow, smooth as silk, speeding with trademark Hawkeye accuracy straight through the damaged panel and deep into the car. One second later and the windows shake as the trick point explodes. Flames lick greedily at the corpse of the vehicle and Clarke is safely crossed off. Clint stands and turns back to Phil, stowing his bow as he walks closer.

“What you see is what you get.”

Phil unconsciously licks his lips. The giddiness is back and boldness like he’s never known before floods him, “I’m seeing.” He takes a stride, holds out his hand. “Does that mean I’m going to get?”

The comms crackle again, somehow the static manages to sound indignant.

“EϬaТЬ-КoПаТЬ! Boys! While is this all very lovely, do you think we could perhaps arrange a clean up and extraction team before you go about getting it on? I swear I’m developing second-hand diabetes listening to you and there’s only so long I can keep these comms locked.”

Phil grimaces, mortified. 

“Of course Agent Romanov. I’m on it. Meet us at extraction point A in ten minutes.”

Clint collapses into helpless, delighted laughter.

>>====>

The flight back to the Triskellion should be awkward, but it isn’t. Romanov gives them the stink-eye when they appear together out of the rubble, both still a little giddy, but mercifully she says nothing. Medics rush towards them but Phil waves them off, directs them back to the few agents who have been injured and are hobbling towards the bay door. There’s the usual hustle and bustle of loading and taking seats, strapping down anyone in stretchers, stowing weapons and Phil powers right into directing the chaos. As soon as everyone is in and buckled up the plane lifts and now he has to head up to the front to call in his preliminary report to Fury. For once, it’s a happy task, targets are crossed off, collateral damage was minimal, injuries slight. It’s a good mission. 

Signing off, Phil makes his way back through to the seating bay. It’s full of slumbering bodies, the injured are drugged, most everyone else is apparently too tired to keep their eyes open. The snoring is a familiar chorus and he takes a moment to savour it, all his people are still here. A very good mission. 

He looks around and spots Barton leaning back with the red head of a comatose Romanov resting in his lap. Barton, no, Clint, smiles to see him and pats the seat next to his, left expectantly empty. Actually this is perhaps the best mission ever.

Phil smiles tentatively back and makes his way over, snagging a couple of waters as he comes. He passes one over as he sits.

“Hey.”

“Hey. Thanks.”

Phil gestures to Romanov, waiflike in sleep, her delicate features belying her utter deadliness. “She’s out for the count then.”

Clint nods.

“And you’re on watch.”

“Yeah. We take turns, you know? And I’m way too wired to sleep right now. For some reason.”

There’s a crackling silence, then Clint takes a deep breath.

“So, back there, that, erm, that was battlefield adrenaline, yeah? Heat of the moment, all that shit…” He looks at Phil, his face unreadable. Wide hopeful eyes, but hard set mouth. Tiny frown. “Wasn’t it?”

Phil forces himself not to panic, not to make assumptions. “Do you want it to be?”

Clint breathes a huge breath, half laugh and half sigh. “Hell, no. No. I do not want that.”

“Good.” Inside Coulson is dancing a jig but somehow he keeps his voice steady. “Me neither.” He slides his hand across the inch of seat that separates them, the longest journey it’s ever been on, until it rests over Clint’s. Clint does not move away. Dazed, Phil stares down at what was, just this morning, an unattainable fantasy.

“So, Coulson…”

“Phil. Right now, surely, Phil.”

“So,” Clint repeats carefully. “Phil. We’ll talk?”

“Of course.” 

Across the cabin there’s a sudden fuss as one of the agents (Probably Agent Waititi) farts in their sleep and all at once everyone is gasping and shuffling away. There are apologies, (it was Waititi, he has far too much passion for lentil-based cuisine for someone who shares quarters) and threats as someone else (definitely Agent Hemsworth, who has to share those quarters on a regular basis) loudly threatens to fetch a rubber bung if it happens one more time, and there’s a few minutes of scuffling, grumbling and hand flapping before the plane gradually subsides into quiet again. Clint is blatantly stifling a laugh and Phil’s own mouth quirks in gentle amusement. 

“Maybe not here though, eh?”

Clint agrees, “Yeah, maybe not. Oh, man,” his mouth gapes wide in a gigantic yawn and he rubs his eyes, “here it comes, the post-mission slump. Yay. I tell you, I don’t want another life, I just want a nap.”

“Take one. I’ll keep watch.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Thanks. Phil.” Clint makes an abortive twitch forward that Coulson is half convinced would have ended with a kiss on his cheek, then settles back and closes his eyes. Phil would be disappointed (and isn’t that in itself is a miracle? Suddenly he’s not dreaming about Clint kissing him, he’s disappointed that he didn’t because all of a sudden, it’s something he might actually be able to expect…How he’s not bouncing up and down and yelling he doesn’t know.) if he didn’t get why Clint held off, he’s the same, still a little shell-shocked. 

But that twitch and the way Clint’s hand flexes under his until their fingers are entwined even as he falls asleep are enough to keep him awake and smiling the whole flight home.

>>====>


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your lovely comments and kudos! I'm so glad you guys liked Chapter one, I hope you enjoy where this one goes.

It’s not until later that the confidence wears off and uncertainty strikes. They have to leave the protective little bubble of the quinjet and put their Agent Coulson and Agent Barton faces back on and then there are briefings and de-briefings to sit through, medical check-ups to endure and reports to file. Phil finds he can’t find time to snatch to talk to Clint and at first it makes him anxious, but the longer it goes on, the longer the burden of busyness seems like a blessing. 

Because, he thinks, perhaps that was as good as it gets, those five minutes when Clint was in his hands and on his tongue, perhaps that’s as far as it ever would have gone and, frankly, it seems greedy, ungrateful and _unrealistic_ to ask for more. Plus, if he’s totally honest with himself and the universe, he’s almost sure the memory is too good to be true. Surely Clint couldn’t have been that willing, that responsive? He can’t have been that interested, he just can’t. And even if he was, the heat of the moment can explain a whole lot, and Phil doesn’t just want a heated moment. He wants all of Clint, friendship and fucking, cuddles and Christmas morning, and surely there is no way Clint could want that from him. Could he?

No, it must have been battlefield adrenaline, Clint said it himself and Phil would be an idiot to think otherwise. Because surely there is no way Clint can have _meant_ what he said on the jet, the novelty of a new pair of lips, even an illicit thrill from kissing the boss, that has to have been it. And while to fuck Clint would undoubtedly be spectacular (the idea has woken him more than once in the night in a hot sweat, his hand round his cock and Clint’s name in his head) to have something so close to what he really wants and have it taken away again? Phil knows that would ruin him.

So it’s perhaps best not to have anything at all.

That’s what he tells himself.

And half his heart believes it. 

The other half however has a very clear and tangible memory of Clint’s mouth, soft under his, Clint’s eyes so open and hopeful, smiling, the warmth and strength of Clint’s fingers when their hands were twined. It remembers the relief on Clint’s face when Coulson didn’t back down. And that half is calling him a coward almost every minute and demanding that he get the hell out from behind his desk and go find the man he can’t stop thinking about.

For the first time in his life, Phil Coulson has frozen. He simply can’t make a plan.

So, he’s hiding in paperwork, finding safety in strings of numbers and basically keeping away from the person he wants to see most. If he doesn’t ask, he can still dream.

Because, sure, that was bound to work.

>>====>

“Coulson! Get yourself in here right now!”

Phil, midway back to his office with arms full of papers, turns at the hissed voice and, of course, it’s Clint, beckoning round a door. His mouth goes dry.

“I mean it! Get in here!”

Steeping through the door, which Clint firmly closes behind him, Phil finds himself in a disused office, not large and clearly not for favoured agents. It’s covered in dust. And more than half full of over-excited and grinning archer. Clint’s practically bouncing on his toes and suddenly Phil’s heart is hammering with something that feels a lot like terror because this could be the moment when everything comes crashing down. Phil’s been doing his best to avoid the issue without looking like he’s avoiding anything, but apparently his acting skills are not as good as he’d hoped. He forces his eyebrow to raise smoothly and his voice to be steady. 

“Barton, what am I doing in here?”

Clint’s grin is pretty much a leer. “Well, _Phil,_ you said we were going to talk. But I’ve not seen more than a wave from you in days. So, I thought I’d better take matters into my own hands, so to speak.”

The hands in question are relieving Phil of his files, snicking closed the latch and (for god’s sake is the guy an octopus?) sliding gently under his jacket and up his back to rest on his shoulder blades. Phil is pretty sure they will burn through his shirt any moment now. Clint leans in close, breath warm against Phil’s neck, he’s going for the ear again and holy hell this is actually happening. Phil shudders. 

Clint whispers, breath tickling, “Anyone would think you’ve been avoiding me.”

It’s a bucket of ice water down Phil’s spine, which stiffens instantly. Clint, being Clint, of course notices and his grin falls as he pulls his hands away.

“Aw, shit, no, you have been avoiding me? Phil?”

Phil can’t speak, he can’t move, he’s pretty sure he can’t breathe. He just stands there, gaping, and watches as Clint’s face closes down completely. He stands tall, straightens his vest, shutters falling over his eyes.

“Right. I see. Sorry to have bothered you, Agent Coulson. Message received. I’ll get out of your way.”

He reaches for the door latch, then pauses.

“For future reference though, Sir,” he says, and the sarcasm is venomous,   
“next time, when you kiss someone out of the blue and pretty much make out like you want to eat them, if that someone gives you an out afterwards the polite thing to do is take it. Not string them along like an asshole.” 

He’s reaching for the handle again, then, as if he can’t contain it, “Jesus! You held my fucking hand the whole way home on that flight, don’t tell me you didn’t. What the _fuck_ was that about if you don’t even like me? Eh? Godammit Coulson. Say something!”

“I…can’t.” Phil manages to croak past the boulder in his throat, “I can’t do this.”

“Yeah, pretty much figured that. Move then. I’ll get out of here and we can pretend it never happened.”

Clint’s fingers tremble just barely as he turns the latch and it’s that that finally drags Phil out of his stupor. To see _Hawkeye_ unsteady twists in his chest like a knife wrought from his own cowardice.

“No!” He grabs Clint’s hand, lifts it from the latch, locks the door again. Clint looks up, wary.

“Coulson?”

This is it then, the now or never moment and somehow it’s scarier than anything SHIELD has ever sent him to face. 

“You’re right, I have been avoiding you. No, please,” he stifles Clint’s interruption, “please, let me finish. I’ve been avoiding you because I didn’t want to have this conversation. Because you asked if it was battlefield adrenaline, and I could have lied, but it wasn’t…it wasn’t. I kissed you because I wanted you Clint. I want you, god, you have no idea how much and for how long, I just want you and it’s killing me and I’m sure that we’d be great, that you’d be great, but I can’t do this if it’s a one-time, novelty, sex-in-a-cupboard kind of thing, because I want much, much more than that from you. I want everything. All you’ve got. I mean, I want to be with you, properly, good days, bad days, mornings, evenings, middle of the night…damn Clint. Not just physical. And I know it’s too soon to be saying things like this but I can’t… I can’t start this if that’s how it ends, I just ca…”

The interruption stifles him this time because it’s Clint’s lips landing on his own and the pure shock mercifully silences his verbal insanity. Clint presses down, firmly, simply, and for the longest time. When he draws back, he’s grinning again and the floor seems to swim under Phil’s feet.

“Let me get this straight. You’ve been avoiding me, but not because you don’t like me, because you like me too much?” 

Phil, still stunned, just nods. 

Clint exhales shakily, “Oh, thank god. Phil, that is literally the best news I’ve had all year. All life! Jesus, you scared me there. I thought I was getting the brush off, big time. Wow.”

He steps closer again and somehow Phil finds himself back exactly where he was before this almost went so wrong, hands under his jacket and Clint’s mouth at his ear.

“Shall I let you in on a secret?” 

Clint’s voice is full of swagger and it sends sparks crawling across Phil’s skin. Shuddering, he dares to bring up his own hands to hold Clint’s arms, which are every bit as huge and smooth and firm and just damn luscious in his palms as he’d ever dared imagine. He bites back an undignified moan and knows Clint hears it when the smirk in his tone increases. 

“First, you have to know, I want you too. I have done for years, just never realised you’d swing that way, let alone be interested in a fuck-up scruff-bag like me. But you’re strong and kind and brave and handsome and fucking awesome, so hell yes, I want you. And not just now, today or once, but for as long as you’ll have me.” 

Well, that’s momentous, but Phil doesn’t have time to process it much before Clint leans in and runs the tip of his tongue around his ear. Phil gasps and feels him chuckle against his neck.

“And second, you are ridiculously hot when you babble.”

He takes Clint’s face between his hands and pulls him up so he can look at him, smiles into that hazy gaze, open and genuine but clouded with, well, want. His own eyes must look much the same.

”Yes?” he asks.

Clint grins. “Abso-fucking-lutely.”

Their third kiss really does start off pretty civilised, it’s a genuine exploration, a give and take of tongues and teeth, two people taking their time, but Phil soon finds himself swept away under Clint’s ferocity. He’s not just kissing, he’s claiming and it’s dizzying. Clint kisses like he trains, with a single-mindedness that takes the breath away, his tongue is an invasion and his hands, god, his hands are _everywhere_. Thumbs spark down his spine as Clint licks his way into his mouth, Clint’s teeth bite into Phil’s lip, his fingers mirror the move, clawing possessively at his hips and when Phil tries to lean back just to breathe, Clint wraps his tie around his fist and pulls, holds Phil still for his devouring. It’s participate or drown. 

So, Phil fights back, sliding his own tongue over and around Clint’s in a slick wrestle. He pushes one hand into Clint’s hair and Clint arches into the touch presenting his gorgeous throat for Phil’s teeth. Phil is only too happy to oblige, nipping up the taut column and setting his teeth under the hinge of Clint’s jaw, biting and when Clint gasps, sucking. He’s going to leave a mark but Clint doesn’t seem to care so he carries on, kissing Clint’s skin into an exquisite bruise and then laving the spot with broad stripes of his tongue. It makes Clint stutter and shake and he files _that_ away for future reference. Sliding his hands down the length of Clint’s back Phil cups his arse, curls into the hot, solid muscle and lets out a long-suppressed groan, it is absolutely as perfect as it looks. 

Clint grunts and bucks forward and suddenly they’re pressed so close but not close enough. Phil yanks Clint in, bucks his own hips and the layers of cloth between them do nothing to hide the way they want each other. It’s like electricity, lightning between them. They’re two grown men rutting like teenagers, hard as hell and rocking into each other frantically, panting, gasping into each other’s mouths, throats. One of them whimpers and Phil has absolutely no idea who it is. It’s heat and want and need and yes and fuck yes and he’s lost track of where he ends and Clint begins in the heady surge of it all. But Clint’s fingers start to scrabble at his belt buckle and he has to…

“Clint. Clint, stop.”

“Phil? What?” Clint is adorable with flushed cheeks and mouth kiss-swollen, he looks half debauched already. “Phil? You okay?”

“I’m good, I’m great, it’s just…” His voice chokes, it’s thick with want and he has to summon every last ounce of his will power. “We have to stop.”

“You don’t want to.”

“No! God, no, that’s not it.” He tilts his hips where they’re still snugged together and Clint jumps, bites his lip. “I think you can feel perfectly well that I want to, just, not now. Not…here.”

Clint still looks lust addled and confused and Phil is reminded at sometimes even Hawkeye needs help to see things. 

“The thing is, Clint Barton, I have thought so many times about what it would be like to take you to bed. What you’d really look like out of that tac suit. What it would feel like to hold you. I’ve thought long and hard about where I want to touch you, which is everywhere by the way, and what noises you’d make while I was doing it. About what I could do to make you shiver, and what would make you shake and what your face would look like when you lose it completely. And if I’m finally going to get chance to find out…”

“You so are,” Clint promises breathlessly, “you really, really are.”

“Then I’m not doing it here, in a dingy office with a dusty desk, in minutes scratched between meetings and with half of SHIELD walking about outside. No.” He drops his voice low and husky, draws a finger down Clint’s throat, “I’m going to take you to a proper bed when we’ve got proper time. I’m going to undress you slowly and enjoy your nakedness properly and then I’m going to take you apart with my hands and my mouth and my cock until you forget everything but my name. I think we’ve both waited long enough to deserve that, don’t you? Even if it means waiting again for later?”

Clint presses his forehead to Phil’s, scrunches his eyes closed and groans, long and heartfelt. “Aw, Phil, you are killing me here. Literally killing me. But of course you have to go and be right. Shhhhhiiiiiiiiit. Okay. Okay. I can do later. Later is fine.” His eyes open, squinting suspiciously. “There will be a later this time, yes? I won’t have to come track you down again? ‘Later’ actually exists?”

In Phil’s chest, something clicks like a lock giving way. Clint is still here, still smiling and, apparently, still interested in being his. They’re in this together and he just knows; from here on in, everything is going to be alright.

Dropping one last kiss, feather light, onto his lips Phil says, “I absolutely promise that later exists.”

“Agh. Fine.” Clint tears away and perches gingerly on the desk, heedless of the dust. “You stay waaay over there then, and I hope those reports are boring because I’ll need you to read me something extremely dull for at least ten minutes before either of us can walk out of here with any dignity.”

Phil scoops up one of the discarded files and laughs when he opens it.

“Oh, you’ll like this one. Remember when that op of Sitwell’s went totally FUBAR over in Turkey? Well, you wouldn’t believe the excuses he put in the report, let me tell you…”

It still takes twenty minutes.

>>====>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Later' will be coming soon - in the meantime I would love to hear what you think x


	3. Chapter 3

Later is a promise that Phil really does mean to keep.

Of course, the problem is that, even if Phil’s own personal universe has recently been re-ordered, SHIELD is still SHIELD, saving the world is still saving the world and later gradually turns into “later” when Clint gets sent out on another op. It’s just a simple point-and-shoot he’s taking with Romanov, not requiring Phil’s supervision but it’s half way across the world. Clint is gone for almost a week and if Phil ever thought he’d felt his absence before, he’s finding out that he was wrong. Of course they can talk, and they do, but despite a frightening number of messages ranging from soppy to dangerously risqué, 

(“That was an official report Clint, you have to keep those actually official. I’m begging you.”

“I’m an archer Phil, is it my fault that I have to talk about shafts?”

“How is it possible you can make everything sound like an innuendo?”

“In-your-endo…”

“Oh, for god’s sake Clint! Have a little mercy!”)

it’s not the same as having that gorgeously cheeky grin bouncing about the place. Clint’s absence puts Phil off his game. His office feels too big and his skin feels too small and he just plain misses him. Plus, of course, his libido is finally off the tight leash he’s had it on for those years and he’s horny as all hell. His traitorous brain insists on re-playing those moments in the office at the most inopportune times, remembering Clint’s hands on his hips, the taste of his throat, the heat of his…well. Safe to say Phil has lost his thread in an unusual number of briefings this week and more than one junior agent has fled the unnerving sight of Agent Coulson smiling quietly to himself. It would be embarrassing if it weren’t so damn thrilling.

But now there’s good news.

“Ohh, at last.” Phil breathes out and shuts down his tablet. The travel manifest for Clint’s mission finally shows his quinjet as on return to the Triskellion and he can’t help grinning. Anticipation pools in his stomach, warm and bubbly and pleasant, and he allows himself a moment to savour the fizz before palming the button that sets him as ‘out of office’ and striding away from his desk without a second thought. He has promises to keep and a plan to put into action.

>>====>

 

Clint’s apartment door in Specialist Quarters is standard SHIELD issue and therefore it’s the work of moments for Phil’s clever fingers and lock-picks to bypass the code-key panel, snick the lock open and allow him to slip inside. (It’s booby-trapped too, of course, but he’s ready for that as well, it is Clint’s apartment after all and what’s a little tripwire between friends?) Phil thinks he should probably feel awkward, what with all the breaking and entering, but the notion of surprising Clint for once is just too good to resist. Plus, he’s brought take-out and wine, to make up for it. 

The apartment is simple, not sparse, just without fuss. The furniture is all clean lines and functionality although there is a quite startling preponderance towards purple. It makes Phil smile, the strength and the sparkle, it’s very Clint.

The flight takes longer than he expected to arrive and the waiting is a special kind of agony. Despite the comfortable chairs, Phil’s way too antsy to sit still and pacing soon loses its novelty. In the end, there’s only so much to look at in two small rooms and while he’s cast a few speculative looks towards the bedroom door, he’s not going in there until he’s invited. He flushes hot at the thought. 

Oh god, he hopes he’s going to be invited. 

But that line of thinking doesn’t help with the waiting either and greeting Clint as a sweaty, needy mess with a raging hard-on is not exactly what he had in mind. If he wants to keep at least a scrap of his dignity intact for when Clint arrives, (and he does, even if he does have hopes of losing it in a fairly spectacular way before the evening ends) he needs a distraction. 

Phil doesn’t mean to snoop, he honestly doesn’t, but you can learn a lot about a man from his books so of course he’s drawn to the bookshelf. There’s a few technical archery volumes, a couple of biographies (comedians, mainly) and well-thumbed copy of ‘Lord of the Rings’, but what catches his eye is the slim spine of what turns out to be a comic book starring Robin Hood. Phil remembers Clint receiving it a couple of Christmases ago as gag-gift in the SHIELD Secret Santa ( Phil suspects Romanov) and then spending much of the evening at Phil’s table, drunkenly critiquing the stance of the hero and his band, his party hat endearingly askew. Phil smiles at the memory, a fond and possessive warmth stirring in his chest. He pulls the book out, chuckling, and as he does something comes free from the pages and flutters to the floor. It’s a photograph. Phil stoops automatically to pick it up, then freezes, halfway to the floor. 

It’s Clint, tanned and grinning, standing outside what looks like…a barn? Yes, a barn, but that’s not what sets the blood pounding in Phil’s head. No, the culprit there would be the pretty brunette woman who is standing next to Clint; she has one arm curling round his waist and the other hand laid over Clint’s where it rests protectively on her stomach. Her very obviously, very pregnant stomach. 

Phil can’t breathe and he can’t look away. The woman is turning from the camera and gazing up at Clint with such a look on her face. Phil knows that look, he’s seen that look before, after all it’s stared back at him from enough mirrors and windows and screens this week. She clearly adores him. He flips the picture and it’s dated on the back, summer 2002, not even two years ago. The year Clint took the whole summer as leave.

Suddenly he can’t bear to hold the picture anymore and stuffs it back into the comic book like it burns. His hands are shaking so badly when he shoves the whole thing back onto the shelf he can barely manage without knocking everything askew. He bolts to the other side of the living room, as if putting physical distance between him and the photograph will help, but it’s no good, the image is seared into his brain. The woman’s besotted stare and that huge baby bump and Clint looking just so _goddamned happy._ Phil can feel it, his beautiful house of cards, the dream he’s been happily living this week, swaying on imaginary foundations and ready to fall. 

He wants to scream. He wants to throw things and tear things and punch someone and he wants to wrap himself in that garishly fluffy purple throw and never, ever come out.

He wants to know.

Clint’s built-in touchscreen is dusty from disuse, its owner being a man who prefers an actual paper note to an email, but it still has access to SHIELD’s main servers. Phil jabs in his access codes and pulls up Clint’s personnel file. It’s not like he doesn’t know it by heart, but he has to see. 

It’s the same entry as always, Clint Francis Barton, born in Iowa January 7th 1971, recruited by SHIELD in late 1996 at the age of 25 when it was join the agency or face jail time for a long string of offences starting at petty larceny and working up. Athlete, circus performer, master marksman with pretty much any weapon but especially the bow. His service history is intimately familiar to Phil, after all he’d been there for most of it. And under family nothing’s changed, parents Harold and Edith, deceased, older brother Barney, location currently unknown. Nothing about the mystery woman, but he just knows somehow that she should be here. Somewhere.

Phil Coulson didn’t make Senior Agent for nothing and it doesn’t escape him for long. He’s never noticed it before because he hasn’t been looking for it but he knows how Nick Fury thinks and now that he _is_ looking, he finds it in less than ten minutes. Tiny, embedded in the shadows of a mission-record photograph, a hyperlink. Phil clicks and it takes him to a sporting-goods website, advertising ‘new and improved’ draw on their compound bows. Hilarious, Fury. Phil is not amused but finds the next link easily enough, hidden innocuously in the copy, this one sending him to a LOTR fanblog with a very strong Legolas flavour. Even less funny. There are a few other lily pads to leap and he clicks through them hastily, finally dropping into a SHIELD annexe page, coded only to the Director. Of course, he knows Fury’s codes by heart, a perk of being the only agent who can decipher his handwriting, and when he enters them Clint’s personnel file pops up again. This time there are a few extra lines.

Standing, Phil makes his way blindly to the kitchenette where he vomits, carefully and thoroughly, into the disposal, retching until he’s bringing up just thin, bitter bile because there’s absolutely nothing else left in him. He’s hollow, in more ways than one. 

Eventually it stops and he runs the tap, wipes his mouth on his sleeve. It’s messy, it will need dry cleaning, but the sky has fallen and he can’t give a shit about his suit.

Making his way back across the room to the screen is harder, maybe because his whole body is shaking, shock and rage and pain and utter disbelief. It cannot possibly be true. Can it? Not Clint, who was so close to being _his_ Clint? But there they are, buried on a secret annexe file, hidden away by Fury himself, there they are, clear as day:

**Family:**  
**Parents** – Harold and Edith Barton, deceased.  
**Siblings** – Barney Barton, whereabouts unknown. 

And now,

**Spouse** – Laura Barton  
**Children** – Cooper Barton (b.1997), Lila Barton (b.2002)

Well, fuck.

He has to go. Has to get out of this space, out and away from everything Clint-shaped. Hastily, he logs out of the annexe page and thumbs off the screen, heads for the door. 

Which is, naturally, exactly when he hears Clint coding the lock.

Clint stumbles in, bag in one hand, quiver in the other and bow case in his teeth. He looks rough, exhausted, but when he spots Phil he straightens, drops the case and grins so wide that it’s like he brought the sunshine inside with him. Phil’s stomach lurches violently again.

“Phil!” He’s so obviously delighted it’s a punch in the gut. “Man, it is good to see you! Oh, c’mere…”

He’s striding over, arms outstretched but Phil stops him with an upraised palm. Formality is his familiar armour and he snaps it on, gratefully.

“Agent Barton. I must apologise for entering your apartment without your permission. It was against protocol and a violation of your residency rights. I am sorry.”

Somehow, despite the tumult in his chest, his ‘Agent’ voice sounds cool and smooth. Locked down. Clint’s brow crumples, puzzled.

“That’s fine, Phil, really. You’re welcome any time, I thought you’d guessed that. It’s no problem.”

“Thank you.” Phil doesn’t plan what he says next but when he hears himself, it feels like an inevitability, the only thing he could possibly do. “I came to tell you that I’m requesting a transfer. To the Sandbox. Effective immediately.”

“Phil, what the…you came to tell me what?” 

Clint’s incredulous. His eyes sweep the room, of course spotting the take-out bags and bottle of white stashed on his table, evidence of a very different motive. He shakes his head as if it will help him understand.

“You’re getting a transfer? No you’re bloody not.”

Phil straightens his tie and forces himself to meet Clint’s eyes. “I am. So we won’t be working together again. Ever. In fact, I doubt we’ll meet again. So this is goodbye. I thought you ought to know. Goodbye Agent Barton.”

He doesn’t quite run for the door, but it’s close. Clint throws out an arm, blocks his way.

“No Phil, no, what the fuck’s going on? Talk to me!”

Phil absolutely can’t do that. He keeps his face blank as he pushes past Clint.

“I’m afraid there’s nothing else to say, Agent Barton. Director Fury will inform you of your new handler’s assignment in due course. If you’ll excuse me.”

“The hell I will!” Clint’s voice is furious and he grabs for Phil’s wrist stopping him dead. “If you think I’m going to let you walk out on me after…”

Phil is done. He whirls in Clint’s grip, hisses through clenched teeth,

“Don’t touch me, you absolute _fucking_ bastard.”

Clint drops his wrist like he’s been bitten and actually takes a step back.

“Woah, okay Phil, sure. But don’t _go_.” he pleads, and maybe once Phil would have been swayed by those big blue puppy-dog eyes but never again. Never again. Clint’s giving an excellent performance of wounded surprise, really, the man’s ability and audacity is astounding. “Phil, what’s wrong? I don’t know…”

“Maybe you don’t,” Phil spits, “But I do. I _know._ I know now. I know what kind of man you are. It makes me sick. And I will NOT be dragged down to your level.” 

He’s swallowing hard, choking down weakness, the part of him that still wants to reach out and touch Clint, to be held and told that everything will be alright. But how can anything be alright now? He balls his fists, they’re shaking with the effort of holding back and if he stays here one minute more someone is going to get hurt. More hurt. 

“I am not that guy and I will not be that guy, do you hear me? You’re not who I thought you were and I’m leaving.” The word is acid on his tongue. “Now get the fuck out of my way.”

Clint looks stunned, he’s leaning against the wall like he’s taken one of Romanov’s infamous flip-kicks to the head.

Phil makes it out of the door at last.

“Phil….” The whisper comes from behind, weakly. “Please…”

He is stone.

“No.”

He does not look back.

>>====>


	4. Chapter 4

The senior agent’s gym is bleak and dim, mercifully empty and echoing with the relentless thumps of Phil’s fists. While he’ll never be in the big leagues of Rogers and Co. he knows how to punish a bag and right now that’s exactly what he’s doing. Sweat’s running down his face and stinging his eyes, his jacket is too tight, the seams are chafing his shoulders because nobody is meant to swing like this even in one of his suits, he’s going to have blisters and he doesn’t care. He just keeps on hitting. And hitting again. A bright wet red smears across the canvas as his knuckles split because of course he didn’t stop to wrap his hands and that’s good because it hurts and it’s bad because it doesn’t hurt _enough_. Nothing hurts enough to outdo the other pain, the pain of finally allowing himself to want, the pain of getting everything he wanted for just a short, wonderful while and then finding it for the revolting sham it was. It hurts worse than anything else has, ever, broken bones and torture included. 

The whole thing was a lie. He let himself be vulnerable to it and it was a lie. 

Phil feels sick and he feels stupid because of course it wasn’t real, when was that for him? When has he ever had anything that good that lasted? And he feels humiliated and so fucking angry. Because it should have been beautiful, it should have been perfect. Because Clint Barton is beautiful and Clint Barton is perfect and Clint Barton is a goddamned liar and a fake and a simple, adulterous _cheat_ and Clint Barton is a fuckwit and Clint Barton is, Clint Barton is…

Clint Barton is standing right behind him.

Phil stops and lets his fists hang. He doesn’t look around, though he hears Clint’s dismayed breath when blood beads from his ruined knuckles to drip onto the floor. 

He keeps his voice dead. “You can’t come in here.”

“Yeah, well, I’m pretty sure I can’t put up the ‘Closed for Cleaning’ sign or lock the gym door, but I’ve done both of those, so…” Phil can hear the shrug, the sass in it, “Here I am.”

Here he is. Indeed. 

Phil has to get out, before he puts Clint in medical. Or, more likely, gets himself put in there trying.

“Barton….”

“No!” Clint interrupts, “No, don’t you ‘Barton’ me, Phil, please. Just don’t. Look. I’m a dick, I know I am. But you’re not exactly winning any awards right now, are you?”

Phil cannot believe his ears, “Me?” He can’t hold the word in, it comes out high and indignant. How dare Clint? How fucking dare he? “Me?”

“Yes, you!” Clint shouts, “This is the second damn time I’ve had to chase you down to talk in some hiding place. And I’ll keep doing it, I’ll do it as many times as it takes because we were building something here and you are not allowed to ruin it, not now! Not after we waited so long!”

The surge of rage is almost strong enough to knock Phil off his feet, it rushes through him a wave of heat that blurs his vision. He clenches his fists hard enough to start them bleeding again and fights the overwhelming desire to turn and beat Clint into next week because why is he doing this? Driving nails into Phil’s heart like this? Why can’t he just let things be over like they should be, like they have to be, and leave Phil the hell alone? It’s insult to injury, that’s what it is, and only iron-self control keeps Phil on his feet, back straight as a ramrod. Clint, of course, sees him stiffen and his next words are gentler, more conciliatory,

“Shit, Phil, I’m doing this all wrong. Like I said, I’m a dick. But please, give me two minutes, yeah? Two minutes. That’s all.”

He must take Phil’s complete silence and utter stillness for assent because he’s talking again almost without pause, words spilling like blood, as if he were the one wounded.

“You killed me back there at mine Phil, honestly, I was so goddamned glad to see you and then you just…it killed me. I had no idea, no idea what could have happened. I mean, I thought things were going well… they were, weren’t they? Really well, so I had no idea what could have gone wrong! I’m coming for a hug and you looked like you wanted to rip my head off and piss down the neck of my corpse and, me, I couldn’t understand why. Then you were gone and I was just, well, a mess. So, I called Nat.”

Phil can’t hold in the tiny dismayed groan, now Romanov knows how stupid he’s been too. Great.

“I know. I know, but sometimes I think she’s the only one who knows anything around here. She saw it in two seconds, the wine, the food, my books and the marks in the dust. I’m just sitting there, all numb and snivelling in my blanket and she worked it out from that straight away. So.” He draws a huge breath, blows it out. His voice shakes. “You found my annexe page, didn’t you? And that means you have to talk.”

That does make Phil turn. “I have nothing whatsoever to say to you.”

“I didn’t say you have to talk to _me_ , I said _you_ have to talk. Just…wait…”

Clint fumbles in his pocket, pulls out a phone, some ancient, push button piece of crap, clearly a burner phone, taps in a number from memory, waits. It’s answered quickly.

“Laura? It’s me.”

Phil’s heart freezes in his chest. Surely…no…surely not even Clint bloody Barton would be crazy enough to put his wife on the line to the man he’d been planning to have an affair with…surely?

“No, everything’s fine. No, it is. It is. Yes, I know I am. I will, Laura, just gimme a second yeah? Listen. I…Lou, shhhh! Look, I need you to talk to someone for me, yeah? Yes, right now! Lou, just talk to him.”

Apparently, Clint bloody Barton is that crazy, because he’s holding the phone out to Phil expectantly. Phil shakes his head, no way, he is not going down that particular alley of broken glass and madness. 

“Please.” Clint mouths turning the full force of his puppy-dog eyes on Phil and ‘never again’ is apparently the same as ‘right now’ because Phil’s hand is moving without his permission, straightening his tie and taking the handset. 

“Hello? Hello? Is anyone there? I swear Clint Barton, if you don’t stop wasting my time I will feed you to the chickens, I have so much to do today…”

The voice on the line is bright, maybe a tiny bit worried, fond and exasperated, feisty. She sounds nice. Phil hates her.

“Mrs…” He chokes on the ‘m’ and spits out the ‘s’ like the word is poison. “Mrs Barton?”

“Yes?” The affirmation is an arrow to the heart, until that moment he’d hung on to the tiniest possibility that…but no. Phil steels himself, because how could this possibly go well?

“My name is Agent Coulson. I’m with SHIELD.”

“SHIELD?” she’s puzzled. “Agent Coulson, Agent Coul….Oh! Phil!” Suddenly her voice floods with delight, Phil can almost see the wide smile that must accompany that tone, “Phil! Oh, my god, it is so good to talk to you!”

What?

“I’m sorry, have we…” he stumbles.

“No, no, we haven’t met, but I feel like I know you from Clint’s stories of course. Honestly Phil, you’re all he ever talks about!” 

She giggles, honestly giggles and though there were things Phil wasn’t expecting, that tops the list. He looks at Clint, who is watching the conversation from a few steps away, balanced uneasily on his toes, hands fidgeting together, looking sheepish. Phil can’t tell if he can hear the conversation but he seems to know what’s being said anyway. He must have been…what? Waiting to make this call? Planning it? Why? Phil’s mind boggles. On the phone, Mrs….Clint’s…the woman is still speaking, though it couldn’t really be called a conversation because she doesn’t let him get a word in edgeways. Which is probably best, because right now, Phil has no idea what he should say.

“It’s always, ‘Phil said this’, or ‘Phil does that’, or ‘Phil’s latest idea’ or ‘Phil’s so good at so and so’ or ‘me and Phil went here’….and one very memorable occasion after the kids were in bed and he’d had one beer too many…” she makes her voice gruff, “You should see Phil in his suits Lou, he totally rocks that hot-boss-competence thing. Always in a goddamned suit. Makes me crazy, I just want to rip ‘em right off him…” 

She breaks into laughing. It’s a terrible impression but she’s caught an inflection that is definitely Clint and Phil can tell she’s repeating what she’s heard rather than making something up. What is happening? There’s more giggling, as if the story is the most delicious piece of gossip and Phil starts to wonder if he’s somehow been connected to some weird alternate universe. One where wives actually enjoy hearing their husbands plan out their infidelities. But she doesn’t stop.

“It’s endless, honestly, every time he comes home. Which is not as often as he should, I can tell you… But now you’re calling me so that means he’s finally told you how he feels! He always said I’d only get to speak to you when he did, which is mean, but apparently I have ‘no discretion’ or something…. I’m so glad he’s done it at last, just so I can meet you rather than listen to him whining! But it took him so long! Honestly, if he weren’t the best brother in the known universe I’dve given him a slap long ago, I really would.” Now her tone drops low and conspiratorial, “Phil, honey, tell me everything, how did he do it? What did he say? What did you say? Where…”

That’s it; Phil has officially lost the ability to process. 

He croaks, “I’m…I’m going to pass you back to Clint now…” cutting off the verbal assault and thrusts the phone back at Clint. Lurching across the gym he just manages to slink down onto a thick crash mat before the spinning in his head sends him to the floor. There’s a loud buzzing in his ears, he’s shivering and he can’t muster a coherent thought. He puts his head in his hands and tries to breathe. Across the gym Phil hears Clint promise to call back and, yes, explain, and yes, soon, _for god’s sake Laura_ , **not now!** He must eventually hang up, because his footsteps come closer and then the mat gives beside Phil as Clint sits, aiming so that they’re careful inches apart.

There’s a long, long, stationary silence which Phil is simply afraid to breach. 

Clint apparently, thankfully, isn’t.

“Sorry Phil, that was a lot, wasn’t it? Laura overshares. I tell her, you say too much, too soon, but she’ll never change. It’s her nature, I guess…” He trails off, awkwardly, “Phil, you okay in there? Talk to me?”

Phil lifts his head out of his hands, rubbing his face as he does. Suddenly he’s very, very tired. He doesn’t dare look at Clint. “She’s your…” and this word chokes him a little too, but now it’s because he can taste the hope on it, “your…sister?”

“Sister-in-law, yeah.” Clint nods ruefully, “My brother Barney, he’s, well, he’s an asshole. I mean, I love him he’s my brother, but he’s an asshole.” He sighs, rubs the back of his neck. “Short version, he met Laura when we were still running with the circus. Young, too young, the both of them. And she’s no idiot, Laura, she’s a clever woman, great Mom, and she’s an artist, yanno? Illustrates children’s books and shit, got a good eye, but where Barney’s concerned, major blindspot. So, anyway, they’re together, she even joins the circus for a while and next thing I know, they’re getting out, getting married. I don’t hear from them for a while, so, I’m thinking that maybe, just maybe things are going straight for them. But then Barney gets involved with very much the wrong bros and straight-up vanishes. Laura turns up at my door one day, sobbing and stuff, and I go looking Phil, I really do, but I can’t find a trace of him. He’s just, gone. So I have to tell Laura that I can’t find him and _she_ tells _me_ , she’s pregnant. So there I am, 25, not a single attribute to my name except I can shoot and not a cent either and suddenly two more mouths to feed. But I tell her we’ll be okay, I’ll look after her. And I try.”

There’s another long pause. Phil still doesn’t look round, he can’t quite, but the picture of Clint, so young and messed up and suddenly so responsible cuts him to the core. He wants to hear the rest, he has to know. He also has to let Clint know he’s listening. he can't speak but very slowly, silently, he inches right, towards Clint, until their legs are just touching, knee and thigh. He’d forgotten how warm Clint is. Clint jumps a little, a tiny smile flickers on his face before he goes on.

“So, shit, Phil, I don’t need to tell you what my life was like, you’ve heard it, petty crime led to less petty crime and then serious crime and next thing I know I’m sitting in jail somewhere with a name like Asscrack, Missouri with a pretty serious term hanging over my head. I’m wrecked and all I can think is ‘how are Laura and the baby gonna manage’? It’s rock bottom for me, right there. I’ve let everyone down, there’s no lower to fall.” He sighs an exhausted laugh. “Course, you know what happens next, Fury shows up, offers to take away the jail time in exchange for my services at SHIELD and I’m stupid, but I’m not that stupid so I say yes and he even agrees to set me up a safe house for Laura and the baby, as my next of kin.” 

Clint shifts just the tiniest bit closer, so the press of their thighs is more solid, and waits, as if expecting Phil to move away. His eyes are focused steadily on Phil. Even if Phil isn’t looking he can feel that Hawkeye stare and it takes a lot of willpower not to bend under it. He doesn’t. But he doesn’t move away from Clint’s touch either. Apparently encouraged, Clint continues, faster now.

“But the thing is, I don’t trust anyone really at that point, SHIELD included and I’m not about to risk how flexible their definition of ‘next of kin’ is. So I tell Fury she’s my wife and the baby’s mine. I doctor the wedding certificate, scratch out Barney’s name, ink mine in, and bingo! We’re married and I’m an Agent of SHIELD. Laura’s living at the safe-house, Cooper’s born and I get back to see them when I can. They don’t need me really, they do good by themselves. They’re great.  
“Seems like two minutes later and I’m being assigned some dull suit as my handler and sent out to terminate the Black Widow. I make a different call on the Widow, the suit turns out to be a devious politician as well as a badass tactical genius and a seriously hot mother-fucker and the rest is, well. History.” He drops his eyes, “Our history, mainly. Yours and mine. Bloody and beat-up as it is.” 

He sounds wistful, nostalgic, warm. This silence has a drop of hope in it. Their history, which could become their future, except…

“And the little girl? She’s…your daughter?” Phil hates himself for asking, but again he has to know if there’s anything to know, has to hear the whole story, lance the boil before he can reach out for that hope.

“Who Lila?” Clint blows a surprised laugh out his nose, a real one this time. “No, she’s my niece. Couple years back, Barney managed to track us down somehow, showed up, made me an uncle again. Like I said, Laura’s great, but, yeah, Barney blindspot. And I’m a pretty solid Kinsey 6, as you might have noticed. Had to tell Fury she was mine though, what else could I do? Tell him I lied to him all these years? Nope. I needed his help to move them, to keep them out of reach of Barney and his bad decisions. So I told him they needed more independence from SHIELD, more space, and they live on a farm now, way out in the middle of nowhere. It runs pretty well, I helped set it up just before Lila was born.”

Phil huffs a breath, nods. “The summer you were on leave.”

“Yeah. It took the entire summer to get the place going, farming’s hard, spying’s easier.” He moves and out of the corner of his eye Phil watches the journey of Clint’s hand as he places it carefully on his own knee, palm up, fingers open. It’s an invitation. “I missed you the whole time.”

Phil takes it, placing his hand equally carefully into Clint’s. “I missed you too.”

Clint swallows a noise that might be a sob, half surprise, half relief, and slowly, slowly, they finally turn to look at each other. Clint looks a mess, hair askew, red eyes, rumpled shirt and Phil’s never seen anything so adorable, or anything he deserves less. There’s a beat and then they both rush to speak at once,

“I’m sorry Clint. I shouldn’t have pried, it won’t happen again, my word on it. Your secrets, whatever they are, are yours to tell or not whenever you’re ready, it doesn’t matter. I forgot it for a while, but I trust you. Always have. It’s just I wanted to be with you for so long and suddenly it was happening and it was more amazing than I’d ever guessed and I found that photo and I suppose I just spiralled. It wouldn’t get out of my head, the image of you so happy and then the annexe file and I was just devastated Clint, honestly, devastated. The idea that everything we had between us was based on a lie, that everything we were building new was the same….I lost it. It was stupid and I should have known better. I’m so sorry that I damaged this, us, and if I’ve wrecked it it’ll be the biggest regret of my life. I don’t know what I’d do without you. You’re a good man, Clint Barton, a damn good man. And...”

“I’m sorry Phil! I should have said something. It just never seemed like it would matter, I mean, when would I need to be single? All I had to do was keep them safe. I never expected to love SHIELD, to make friends like Nat, let alone to meet someone like you. I never expected to meet anyone who would put up with me for more than five minutes, I’m just a smart-mouth orphan raised by carnies, trained to look a bit special with a stick and a piece of string from the damn Palaeolithic era. But you did, put up with me I mean. You don’t know what that meant to me. And I would have told you about Laura and the kids, but it never really seemed that important when we were _here_ , working, it didn’t occur to me, this is my real life, with SHIELD, Nat..you. But I should have thought to tell you when we started…being more, I should have. You need to know that I trust you. It wasn’t that. You’re awesome Phil, just plain awesome and if this was nearly over because of something I did, I don’t know what I’d do. Because…”

Most of it’s a gabble of desperate, cross-purposed over-speaking, but at least they finish together.

“…I love you.”

Another beat of charged silence, then Clint snorts a laugh in a most undignified way and Phil tries for a stony face but fails miserably and can’t help but join him. They laugh and giggle and guffaw in relief and adrenaline and the sheer insanity of the hot mess they call their lives until tears run down their cheeks and they’re both gulping for breath. Phil reaches out to steady himself on Clint’s shoulders and from there it’s a simple matter to run one hand up the back of his neck and pull him down for a long, slow, filthy kiss. It’s somewhat punctuated by little gasps, at first for air and then, as Phil leans back into the mat, pulling Clint down with him and plundering his mouth with a greedy tongue, just gasps. Since it worked so well last time, Phil sucks Clint’s bottom lip into his own mouth and nibbles on its, savouring its plumpness and the hot taste that is just Clint and Clint is no less enthusiastic, licking in behind Phil’s teeth in a startling but spectacular move that sends shivers down his spine. They grip and lick and bite and mouth and press against each other as if daring daylight to squeeze between them. They move together like they were made for it.

As desperate, charged break-up/make-up kisses go this one is truly legendary and it’s a long, long time before they break apart. When they do, they’re both breathing hard. Phil manhandles Clint a bit, tucks him under his arm for that long-awaited hug. He just fits, the warm solidness of his body crowding tight against Phil’s. It works. It’s right. 

“Phil?” Clint’s voice is a little muffled but brighter, “We good? I mean, I’m good, if you’re good, so, we’re good? Yes?”

There will be more talking, Phil knows, there will have to be, but he’s pretty sure that the crisis is over. He was stupid and hasty, and Clint was a compartmentalising idiot and yet, here they are, wrapped up in each other. From here on in they can make their way together.

“We’re good.”

This silence is soft, warm and companionable, at least until Clint decides to break it, his voice glittering with unmistakeable sass.

“So, Coulson, you love me, hey?”

Phil sighs, mock annoyed, but really, what else is there between them now but the truth? “Yes Barton, I do.”

Clint wriggles suggestively. “Anything you plan on doing about that?”

Oh, there are so many answers Phil could give to that and he is buzzing with a low-watt, comfortable arousal that prickles his flesh, makes him hyper-aware of every centimetre where their bodies touch and leaves him cursing every layer of cloth that keeps him from Clint’s skin. But the adrenaline is washing out of him now and only one plan seems to fit the moment. Phil grins, lets it leak into his voice. 

“You closed the gym door?”

“Yes.”

“And coded it locked?”

“Yes…..”

Under his arm, Clint is tight with anticipation, straining to look up at him with bright eyes. Phil smirks as he answers.

“Then my plan is to lie right here and take a nap with you in my arms. I’m an old man, it’s late, there’s no rush, this mat is soft, today has been a rollercoaster and now I’ve finally got you where I want you it feels too good to let you go just yet.”

A pause, and then, surprised,

“A nap? Really?”

“You object, Barton?”

“I don’t, actually Sir,” Clint’s yawn is a smile cracked wide, “Turns out thinking you’ve lost the best thing in your life is pretty exhausting. Plus, nap cuddles with you have featured fairly heavily in my top ten daydream fantasies during this last gods-forsaken week. So no objections here.”

Well then, thank all the gods for multi-purpose gym equipment. Phil rolls, turning Clint to spoon up behind him, one arm wrapped around his chest, the other slung over his hip. He winces when Clint lifts it up to inspect his torn and battered knuckles. 

“Jeez, Phil, these are a mess. What were you doing?”

He mutters the answer into Clint’s hair, “I was upset, fine now, nap please.”

“You know, I don’t think a guy has ever bled over me before. It’s pretty flattering.”

“Don’t let it go to your head. I can still ask Romanov what you look like snivelling in your purple blanket.”

“All right, all right.” He wraps Phil’s arm back around himself. “I love you too Phil, you know?”

“I know, but please, tell me again when I’m awake.”

>>====>

 

Clint does. He tells him so many times and in so many different tones, Phil would be hard pushed to pick a favourite. 

It might be the way Clint whispers it lightly, just a breath as he starts to stir against Phil when they finally wake in the empty gym, both in desperate need of a shower and a proper bed. 

It might be the way he gasps it, giggling after a giddy run hand in hand back down the corridors to his apartment, narrowly avoiding a group of agents grousing about the amount of time it seems to be taking the service crews to clear up and how clean can a gym possibly get anyway?

Then there’s the very different wet and needy gasp of ‘I love you’ that Phil wrings out of Clint when he removes the suit, joins him in the shower and mouths along his damp neck, re-bruising the fading mark there and re-staking his claim; that sounds delicious too. As does the vaguely incredulous and admiring murmur when Phil sinks to his knees, takes Clint in his wet, loose mouth and sucks him down to the root. The percussion of Clint’s head lolling back into the tiles and the way he cries out when Phil swallows around him adds a certain level of erotic harmony that he just cannot fail to appreciate.

The needy and desperate, 

“PhilIloveyoubutforgod’ssakeareyoutryingtokillmeI’mreadyalreadyfuckgodplease” 

Clint manages to babble as Phil slides a second and then a third slick finger into his greedy arse is perhaps a little difficult to decipher but Phil adores it nonetheless; with the way Clint’s eyes flutter shut and his hands claw in the (naturally, purple) sheets when Phil finds that secret spot inside and worships it with clever fingers it’s a very strong contender. 

And when Clint breathes it again as he sags kneeling in Phil’s lap, belly and chest streaked with his own come, hands loosely braced on Phil’s shoulders, accepting Phil’s cock as he fucks up into him, it’s so pure and reverent that it takes Phil over the brink himself, his own breath nothing but Clint’s name.

It’s no good, Phil thinks (when he is in fact able to think again) watching the shift and flex of Clint’s delectable back and arse as he heads briefly to the bathroom, he’s going to have to hear them all again. At least several more times. He grins again. He might just be the luckiest bastard the world has ever seen.

Clint returns, snuggles down under the duvet and there’s a moment of shifting and turning before Phil finds he’s the little spoon this time, with several feet of hastily wiped-down and sweaty archer plastered up against him. It’s very much unobjectionable.

He’s hovering on the edge of satisfied oblivion when Clint speaks into his ear,

“Hey, Phil, we’re done now, right?”

He does not stutter, twitch or flail, just asks.

“We’re what?”

“Done. I mean, done with this game of insane relationship bingo we’ve been playing. The way I see it, we can tick off pining, unrequited longing, or, to be fair, mistakenly unrequited longing, long distance relationship, surprising, inappropriate but awesome first kiss, almost cupboard sex, celibacy…”

Phil chuckles, he’s getting it, “One week is not celibacy.”

“With the hard on I had? It counts Phil. As I was saying, we’ve covered misunderstandings, secrets, cheating, kinda, and believe me if that’s what it’s like the real thing is _never_ going to happen… first fight, which was a doozy, meeting the family (ish), napping, making each other feel like shit and now utterly spectacular make up sex…I really feel like we have a full house, you know? We can keep the spectacular sex, but otherwise can we quit with all the angsting now and just have a normal relationship?”

Phil wriggles down more firmly into Clint’s warmth, catches hold of a hand and twines their fingers.

“Clint, while I am definitely down for more spectacular sex, I’m a secret agent, you’re a master assassin marksman and we both work for a highly secretive and badass agency operating largely outside the government, catching bad guys for a living. We have Russian ex-spies and one-eyed masters of manipulation for friends. You’re a hot mess and, to be frank, I’m a mess in well-pressed suit. What makes you think that a relationship of ours would resemble normal in any way?”

“But…”

Phil squeezes Clint’s hand and brings it up to press a kiss onto his knuckles.

“What we can have is **our** relationship, which will be crazy, messy and fabulous and I promise I will love you and you will love me and we will work to make it work. No more angsting, just us. Good enough?”

Clint drops a clumsy kiss onto his ear and Phil hears the smile even as they relax and slip into sleep.

“Sweetheart, that is absolutely fine with me.”

He is _definitely_ the luckiest bastard alive. 

>>====>

Agent Phil Coulson doesn’t want much. Sure, that badass documentary on Discovery would be nice, getting laid is more than awesome and Fury had better hand over that Bucky Barnes card pretty damn soon if he actually wants the requisition accounts completed this fiscal year. And he’d rather lose a leg than lose his Lola. But, as Phil would tell you, maybe over that stiff whiskey in the peace and quiet, his wants are actually pretty simple. They begin and end with Clint Barton’s hand in his and that one word in the darkness.

“Sweetheart.”

With that, he’s pretty much got everything he could ever really want. And he knows it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the comments and kudos, it means the world!


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